


Past and Present

by CdnGingerGirl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221b-bamfstreet, Feelings, Johnlock Challenges, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Prompt Fic, Reunion Fic, Tumblr, rated M for some sexytimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-08
Updated: 2012-09-08
Packaged: 2017-11-13 19:09:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CdnGingerGirl/pseuds/CdnGingerGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock returns after dismantling Moriarty's web, but his reception is not quite what he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Past and Present

**Author's Note:**

> Written as part of the August-September Johnlock Challenges Gift Exchange on Tumblr, based on the following prompt from 221b-bamfstreet: A reunion after Reichenbach prompts Sherlock and John to reveal their true feelings.
> 
> This is not part of my Domestfics universe (under my pseud thegingerintheback) or part of the world of Gone, Gone (my WIP).
> 
> Beta by my dear, lovely Maggie-Conagher.

John Watson was not necessarily a believer of being in the right place at the right time.

Of course, he’d had his share of moments when it seemed that all the stars were aligned just so and all was right in the universe. Seeing an IED explode under the Jeep just behind his had been one of them. Meeting Sherlock Holmes, another.

But for the most part, John believed that people played the best they could with the hands they were dealt. Despite absolutely shit conditions, he managed to save his share of soldiers before he was shot himself. Even then, he pulled through and survived. So when Sherlock died and left him alone, John took some time to mourn his friend; of course he did. But he didn’t spend his life wasting away and folding in on himself. It would have been easy, and likely no one would have blamed him, but he wasn’t that person.

John had experience with death. He’d lost his share of patients: the ones where he worked and cut but they simply bled out; the soldiers who looked into his eyes and gasped out the name of a wife or a husband or, simply, “Mum” as they shuddered violently out of life; the ones who came in to A&E so broken and bloody that John only had time to grasp their hands before the spark flickered out. His father had died when he was eleven; his mother, when he was seventeen. Despite her continued presence on Earth, Harry had been essentially dead to John for years. Sherlock was just another death in John’s life, like that of his parents and his college girlfriend (struck by a drunk driver while walking home one night); another blow, certainly, but John was a survivor, and he would survive this.

He spent most of the first year in a partially numb state. Sherlock had been his best friend, it was true, but John had other friends and he wasn’t one to give in to grief. Slowly, he pushed his way back to life again. He got a new job, at a different hospital, in A&E. He found a new flat, allowing Mrs. Hudson to keep 221B almost as a shrine to her deceased tenant. He began dating again, and to his utter surprise, found himself in a relationship with an older man named Michael.

~~

While living with Sherlock, John had protested for ages that he wasn’t gay. He had had a couple of brief experimental periods in Uni and in the military, but while he enjoyed them, such as they were, he definitely enjoyed women more. There was something about them, their curves, their style, the products they used that made their skin feel so soft and smell so good. He loved the feel of warm breasts in his hands, of the warmth between a pair of lithe legs wrapped around his waist.

However, John would, if pressed, consider himself a two on the Kinsey scale _(‘latent homosexual tendencies’, he could almost hear Sherlock snort in his head)_. He may have preferred women, but when Michael strolls into his local and sits down next to him, John knows he is a goner.

Michael doesn’t look anything like Sherlock; he doesn’t look like anyone John knows, although he bears a passing resemblance to Jeremy Irons, in the right light. An architect, he is successful, smart (although not so smart John feels like an idiot, as he had on occasion with Sherlock) and kind. He owns his own firm, specializing in creating sustainable developments, and a summer home in Torremolinos. While he has an appreciation for the finer things in life, he is not above coming down to the pub for a pint and the football. But it is his eyes, warm and brown, that suck John in.

Before Sherlock has been gone two years, John and Michael are living together in Michael’s tasteful, yet understated flat not far from Belgravia. At first, John had been reluctant to move there, a little nervous that the proximity to Irene Adler’s old house would make it more difficult. But he has a strong will, and decides he will not allow himself to be bothered by the nearness of the scene of Sherlock’s drugging at the hands of a dominatrix.

Within a month of meeting, John is comfortably ensconced in Michael’s flat. He works his shifts at A&E, far better hours than he had had as a resident. Michael is an excellent cook, and thanks to his reasonably regular hours, John often comes home to fettuccini with fresh pasta Michael had made only a half-hour before, or a fish fry using a batter made with beer from his friend with the micro-brewery.

And while John occasionally misses the crazy chases through London at Sherlock’s heels or hearing the violin at three in the morning, he knows that he isn’t getting any younger, and he counts his blessings for having found someone as lovely and kind and wonderful as Michael at the age of forty-two. Not everyone is that lucky, he knows; his mother had been in her mid-forties when his father had died, and then she passed on six years later, a widow still at fifty-one but looking much older from stress and grief.

When John meets Michael, he thanks his lucky stars that he had been in the right place at the right time.

In July, when Sherlock has been dead for twenty-six months, John is most definitely in the wrong place at the wrong time.

~~

“Michael? I brought the wine!” John calls out as he leaves his keys on the small table next to the door. The flat is dark, and so hot it’s stifling. “Michael?”

Something is wrong. Michael would never allow his flat to get so hot and uncomfortable. Contrary to his text at lunch about picking up something to go with grilled fish at 5:30, dinner is most decidedly not ready. John frowns and shifts his grip on the wine bottle, to use it as a weapon, if necessary. For the first time since Sherlock’s death, he regrets the loss of his gun, which he had turned into Lestrade after the funeral.

Cautiously, on quiet feet, he slips down the hall and silently pushes open the swinging door to the kitchen. There is a strong smell of fish; from the grill on the cooktop, he sees immediately. But the stove isn’t lit, and Michael is sitting at the kitchen table, a tumbler of expensive whiskey at his elbow, the bottle nearby. John puts the white wine, bottle still cold from the cooler, on the counter in relief.

“Michael? What’s wrong, love?” John is not really a man for endearments, but Michael likes hearing them. More than that, his jaw is stiff and the whiskey, which is not his usual drink of choice, is troubling. John knows that the bottle had been a gift from a client last week; Michael had put it in the liquor cabinet immediately, yet now it’s down several ounces. “Are you hurt? Did something happen at work?”

Michael takes a swig of the amber liquid, nothing at all like his usual sip. He clears his throat, and takes another gulp. “John,” he begins, his voice roughened from the liquor. He coughs. “John.”

John sits at the table and moves the whiskey out of the way. He reaches out to grasp the other man’s hand, resting by the tumbler, but Michael yanks it out of reach. “Michael, I don’t mind telling you, you’re scaring me a little. What is going on?”

Michael drains the whiskey glass, then slams it on the table. “John, I have never pried into your past. Whatever you chose to tell me, about your life, or your time with Sherlock Holmes, I have been content to listen, and I never once passed judgment; would you agree?”

John is flabbergasted. He had discussed Sherlock with Michael, and the architect had of course seen the newspapers after the detective’s death, but Sherlock is now dead over two years. “Where did this come from?”

“I do not understand why you lied to me! And this ridiculous fiction in the press; shall I assume his brother had something to do with that?”

“Michael! What are you talking about? How did I lie to you? I’ve answered every question you asked me honestly, and even told you some details of my own volition… I don’t understand.”

To John’s shock, Michael, who was not given to violent tendencies, slams his fist down on the oak table so hard his tumbler jumps and falls on its side. “Sherlock Holmes is alive!” he shouts.

John’s mouth falls open; the blood rushes to his head and all he hears is roaring. His face is burning. “What? What are you talking about?”

The architect slumps in his chair. “He’s alive,” he repeats dully.

John shoots out of his chair, a bullet leaving a gun; the whiskey glass hits the floor with a smash. He has never struck anyone (who didn’t deserve it; Anderson doesn’t count), and he’s not about to start now, but there’s no way in Hell that anyone is screwing with the peace he’s made with Sherlock’s death. “Michael! I don’t know what you’ve heard or what you think, but I saw him fall! I saw it, I touched him after, I saw the blood, I was at the damn funeral! The papers—“

The toilet flushes. John freezes.

And then a familiar baritone voice; God, John had ached and _ached_ to hear it, but he pushed through it, he worked through the ache and the hurt and the loss and he landed on his feet and found a great job and a great man and moved into a great flat—

“John.”

John closes his eyes, tightly, and begins to work through his day. Did he eat anything weird, was his lunch stored next to the bacterial incubator? Anything to explain this hallucination. He feels hot all over, and yet he can’t stop shaking. _Is it ‘flu, did I catch something from a patient?_

“John. Look at me.”

John shakes his head. He can’t; he can’t turn around, he won’t. He doesn’t move until he feels something grasp his elbow.

When John turns, he does two things that immediately cement his credibility with Michael.

First, he punches Sherlock Holmes square in his pale face.

And then he faints dead away.

~~

Sherlock picks himself up off the floor, his nose gushing blood and his lip split in two places. He pulls a clean handkerchief from his pocket and winces as he mops up his face. “That could have gone better,” he comments in a dry voice.

Michael hands him a tissue gingerly, almost as if he’s afraid that if he touches him, Sherlock will vanish. He turns his attention to the unconscious John on the kitchen floor. “Will you help me move him?”

Bloody handkerchief and tissue stuffed in the pocket of his ubiquitous Belstaff, Sherlock jerks his head in a sharp nod. He reaches for John’s shoulders, but Michael moves smoothly around, placing his body between John and Sherlock.

“Take his legs, please. We’ll put him on the sofa.”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock shifts obligingly down to John’s legs and places one arm under his ankles and another under his knees. Together, the two men lift John carefully and move him to the sitting room, depositing him on the dark green leather sofa. As Michael pulls away, he smooths his hand across John’s forehead and murmurs, “I should not have doubted you.”

Sherlock keeps his face impassive, but inside he is seething. He hadn’t quite believed it when he’d heard that John had moved in with another man, but now he can see: this Michael is going to be trouble.

He makes to sit in an armchair, and then changes his mind. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he texts quickly and presses _send_. From John’s pocket, his mobile chimes softly. Sherlock meets Michael’s eyes.

“I’ll trust you not to delete that before he comes around.”

Michael inclines his head, and Sherlock smiles thinly.

_Nothing but trouble._

~~

When John wakes up, Michael is sitting in the armchair, two cups of tea on the coffee table in front of him.

“He just left.”

John groans. His head aches and his hand is killing him, and Sherlock is gone again. He closes his eyes.

“Check your mobile.”

John fumbles in his pocket and fishes out his phone. He clicks the little envelope to read the new text.

_Baker St._

_Tomorrow, 8pm._

_Come if convenient._

_SH_

As John reads the text, the phone chimes again.

_If inconvenient, come anyway._

_SH_

John can’t even smile at the reference to one of the first texts Sherlock ever sent him. His head is spinning, his body is heavy, and he can’t imagine how his life has turned into this, when only today at lunch time he was smiling over a text from Michael about wine for grilled fish and possibly a Top Gear marathon later in the evening. Today at lunch time, he had a fantastic partner who loved him and was waiting for him to come home, and now…

_Sherlock._

John can’t wrap his mind around it. He was there, he spoke to Sherlock, he saw the whole thing, and yet somehow, he’s back.

“He wants you to go to him, doesn’t he.”

It’s not a question.

“Yeah.”

“And you’re going.”

The silence is pregnant with meaning, but John can’t lie. He’s never been able to lie.

“Yeah.”

Michael sighs heavily. “Drink your tea, you’ll feel better.”

“I’m just going to talk to him. Find out…”

“Drink it, John.”

“Michael, I have to see him, you understand, right? But I’m not leaving, I’m not. I just have to know.”

“John, will you please drink your damn tea before it gets cold!” Michael struggles to calm his temper. “Will you please. Drink. Your tea. Please.”

“You know I care about you.”

“John! I understand that you have been the victim of a very cruel hoax, and I understand that you have to see him. I believe you when you say you’re not leaving, and I’m sorry about earlier. But will you please sit up and have some tea before you pass out on me again!”

John sits up and drinks his lukewarm tea. When he’s satisfied, Michael stands, kisses John on the forehead and goes into his study, closing the door with a soft click.

If he’d known that John Watson came with a Lazarus in his life, he never would have fallen in love with the doctor.

~~

Sherlock Holmes does not do nervous.

And yet, as he sits in his chair, palms pressed together, fingers at his lips, that’s exactly what he is.

He supposes he can’t really blame John for punching him. The fainting was unexpected, but the body is a system of nervous impulses, and when it’s overwhelmed, it shuts down.

To calm himself, he thinks of all the ways this scenario tonight could play out.

_John punches him again._ (Likely.)

_John walks in and is calm as though nothing happened._ (Not bloody likely.)

_They have a screaming match._ (Possible, although Sherlock isn’t really a screamer.)

_John takes his hands, and…_ (Remote, at best.)

The doorbell buzzes. Sherlock waits, and then remembers that Mrs Hudson, after the fright he gave her, has gone to the country to stay with her sister and calm her nerves, and so is not here to get the door. As he stands, the doorbell buzzes again.

When he opens the door, John is on the step. His face is bland but the tightness in his crows’ feet belies his tension. “What happened to your key?”

“Didn’t feel right using it, all things considered.” He waits calmly until Sherlock remembers himself.

“Please, come in.” He stands aside, and follows John up the stairs. His limp, which Sherlock had expected to see, is not in evidence. _Did I fix him permanently? Or is this Michael’s doing?”_

John stops on the threshold of 221B and hesitates. “It looks the same.”

“Mrs Hudson’s doing. And Mycroft’s, I suppose.” He clears his throat, awkwardly. “Won’t you please sit.”

John moves into the sitting room and sits in his old chair.

“Tea?”

“Actually, no. I can’t stay long. I’m meeting Michael later.” John shifts. “So, talk.”

And Sherlock does. He tells John everything, everything about Moriarty and the jump from St. Barts, Molly and Mycroft’s help, his work around the world, patiently snipping the threads of the web the consulting criminal had built up over the years, culminating in the arrest and shooting of the final agent, here in London. And now it’s over, and once Mycroft brings Sherlock back to life legally, they can pick up where they left off, solving cases and running through London and leaving body parts in the fridge.

“So you did it to save my life.”

“And Lestrade’s, and Mrs Hudson’s,” Sherlock replies.

John frowns. “And for some reason, you couldn’t tell me any of this. Even though we lived together, and worked together, and trusted each other more than anything.”

Sherlock fidgets. Why is he so damn nervous? Why on earth is the second scenario he imagined playing out? Aside from his final one, it had the lowest odds of happening, and yet, here they are.

“Right.” John’s face clears, and he stands, without difficulty, Sherlock notes. “Well, I suppose I should thank you for saving my life.” He offers his hand to shake, and Sherlock takes it in a daze. “Thank you for saving my life, Sherlock. I’m glad you’re alive.” He takes his hand back and turns to go, and Sherlock can’t help it.

“That’s it? That’s all? ‘Thanks for saving me, Sherlock, see you around?’ Were you listening _at all_?”

John’s shoulders are tense, but he doesn’t turn around. “I was listening, Sherlock. I heard you say quite clearly that this was something you couldn’t tell me, you couldn’t trust me with, you went off alone, _again_ , like you always do, and left me behind to pick up the pieces, and I did. _Again._ ”

He turns around, and Sherlock can see the anger in John’s pinched lips, his flared nostrils. John’s gotten much better at hiding his emotions, but Sherlock can see them, clear as day. “You did this. You left, Sherlock, and I don’t know if you expected me to pine away over you like some Victorian heroine, or what, but you’re the one who left! You didn’t do this _for_ me, you did it _to_ me. Well, guess what?”

He’s shouting now, and Sherlock finds it oddly satisfying, for some reason. “You’re not the first person who’s died on me, and I got past them, and I got past you. I cared for you, once, but you made it clear you weren’t interested, and I have _moved on_ , Sherlock, I’m with Michael now, and I care for him and he cares for me and we’re happy together. And we’re about to have dinner with his brother and sister-in-law, so I have to go.” He walks towards the door again.

“John!”

John stops, but he doesn’t turn this time. “Sherlock. I am glad you’re alive. But there is no more Sherlock-and-John. That partnership died when you did.” He closes the door behind him, and then he’s gone.

Sherlock is left standing in the sitting room in disbelief. Although he’s not exactly surprised by the yelling, he never dreamed John would leave him to go back to Michael.

Sitting distractedly, he pulls out his mobile.

**_He left. SH_ **

**_Are you surprised? MH_ **

**_I must admit, a little, yes. SH_ **

**_YOU left HIM. Did you expect him to stay alone for ever? MH_ **

**_…_ **

**_Brother, your silence speaks volumes. MH_ **

**_I need him back here. SH_ **

**_Need, or want? MH_ **

**_…_ **

**_I see. MH_ **

**_What can I do? MH_ **

**_Stay out of it. I don’t need your help. This man is ordinary. He is not worth the effort. SH_ **

**_But John is. MH_ **

Sherlock rereads Mycroft’s last message, and smiles grimly. He did not go to all this bother to see John take up with some architect. After the past twenty-six months, this will take hardly any work at all.

~~

John steadfastly does not read the newspapers over the following weeks. When the Guardian is delivered, he places it face down on Michael’s desk without glancing at it. He keeps the television on Sky Sports, flipping the channel only for Top Gear. He avoids the pub and does not respond to any of Lestrade’s texts or calls.

It’s impossible, however, to avoid the news of Sherlock’s return. Soon, John’s colleagues are dropping by to not-so-subtly dig for information on the miraculous re-appearance. A few of them ask if John is going to start going out with Sherlock again to solve crimes, and most assume he has already moved back to 221B. Only a few, his closest friends on staff, ask about Michael.

About a week after the review of Sherlock’s work with Scotland Yard is completed and his name cleared, Michael and John are in bed. Michael slips a hand into John’s pyjama bottoms as he kisses the doctor’s neck, and John moans softly as his thigh is stroked gently, Michael taking his time and feeling his way. He’s moved on to sucking on John’s collarbone as he cradles John’s testicles, when a mobile chirps from the dresser. John curses softly and tries to squirm away.

“Ignore it,” Michael breathes into his neck. “I need you.”

“Ung… I’m on call tonight,” John whispers, just as Michael’s hand brushes his cock. “I have to… oh God, you feel good.” He struggles mightily to pull himself together. “Oh, my God.”

_Chirp chirp_.

John groans as if in pain and wriggles out of Michael’s grasp. He scans the text quickly. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” He tosses the mobile to the other man.

**_Dead male in Ealing. Fingerprints gone; acid. Medical opinion required. Come at once._ **

**_SH_ **

As Michael holds the phone and reads the text in disbelief, it chimes in his hand. He frowns in disbelief.

“’Could be dangerous?’ Is he being serious?”

John snorts. “Git. Here, give me the phone.” When Michael tosses it back, he texts back quickly.

**_No. I meant what I said._** He drops the phone on the dresser and gets back into bed. “Where were we?”

Michael chuckles. “Right here, I think.” And he cups John’s erection through his pyjamas as the phone chirps again. Michael jerks his hand away in irritation.

“He does not let up, does he?”

John goes to read his new text.

**_John, COME NOW before I let Donovan taze him. GL_ **

He turns back to the bed, where Michael is lounging, a resigned look on his face. “Just go.”

“Michael, I—“

“Go, John. He won’t stop until you do.”

“No. I want a clean break,” John says stubbornly.

“So go, and tell him that. Just go before he texts us all night.”

The two men stare at each other before John sighs and looks away. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

~~

The case was barely worth the effort of John getting out of bed; by the time he makes his way to Ealing, 45 minutes later, Sherlock is in full deduction mode and Lestrade is physically restraining Donovan.

“John! Thank God. Will you please take him home!” Lestrade looks like he might release Donovan soon if Sherlock isn’t dragged away.

“What happened?”

“Oh, long story.” Lestrade is interrupted by Sherlock snorting loudly.

“It is _not_ a long story, it is a very easy, very short, very not worth my time story! Honestly, Lestrade, if you thought you would _ease me back in_ to work, then I despair to think of what has become of the Yard. This was a disgrace.” He spins on his heel and sees John. “Finally! Come with me, I haven’t been to see Angelo.”

“Sherlock, it’s almost midnight.” John rubs the bridge of his nose, remembering his warm bed and his warm man. “I have to work in the morning, so I’m leaving. Lestrade, next time, you can taze him.” He stalks towards the street and, before Sherlock can react, gets back in his cab (thankfully he had the foresight to ask the cabbie to wait) and drives away.

All of the officers see the look on Sherlock’s face, but only Lestrade knows what it means.

~~

It happens several times through to the end of August. Sherlock texts; but John never responds. He doesn’t go out to another crime scene.

Throughout Sherlock’s text assault, Michael is remarkably patient. He is supportive of John’s efforts to distance himself from Sherlock. For his part, John works hard at being present with Michael, and tries to forget about Sherlock. He’ll always be grateful that Sherlock saved his life, but he’s not a part of John’s life any more.

One night, John and Michael are in bed again when John’s phone chimes. Michael has just sunk to the hilt into John, who is focusing on the feel of his lover inside him and the hand on his cock to the exclusion of everything else. Before Michael can thrust more than twice, the phone chimes four times.

“It might be the hospital,” John gasps as Michael pushes in again.

“You know it’s him,” the older man grunts in reply. “ _God,_ John. You feel—“

“Michael, stop, stop. At least let me check.”

With a sigh, Michael slips out and rolls off of John. “Fine. It’s fine.”

Wincing, John gets up and makes his way to the dresser and his phone.

**_John! Kidnapping. Might be dangerous. SH_ **

**_It’s dangerous. SH_ **

**_John! Come now, Westminster! SH_ **

**_Where the hell are you? GL_ **

As John scrolls through the messages, the phone chirps again.

**_The bloody git’s gone and got himself cracked across the head! GL_ **

**_He says no hospital. Meet us at Baker Street. GL_ **

John swears and begins yanking on his boxers and jeans. From the bed, Michael doesn’t look over.

“Someone cranked him over the head and he’s refusing hospital. I’ll go check him out and come home when I can.”

“I understand.”

“Michael, look at me.” When the other man refuses, John sighs and sits on the bed. Michael is covered only by the sheet, and John can see his erection is all but gone. “My love, I’m sorry. But he won’t go get checked out.”

“John, I get it. He saved your life, and you feel like you owe him. It’s fine, go. Just… come back to me, yes?”

John clasps the other man’s hand and drags his lips across the knuckles. “I will, I promise.” He stands and pulls on a jumper over his sleep tee. “I’ll be home when I can.”

~~

Thanks to a convenient taxi, it takes John less than 30 minutes to get to Baker Street. He finds Lestrade pacing in the sitting room as Sherlock sits on the sofa and holds a bag of frozen peas to the back of his head, a mug of tea on the table at his elbow.

“John! Good. You’ll stay with him, yeah? I have to get back, check in on the kidnapper. Look after yourself, Sherlock,” he finishes sternly. “Next time, you’ll listen before running in somewhere alone.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and mutters something that ends with something suspiciously like “imbecile.”

“Back at you, you pillock.” Lestrade rolls his eyes good-naturedly, bids John goodnight, and lets himself out.

It’s just the two of them in the flat, and the silence is thick. Finally John clears his throat and sets his bag down. He pulls his penlight from his pocket and clicks it on. “Let’s have a look, then. You know how this goes; look at the light and follow my finger.”

He kneels in front of Sherlock, shining the light in his eyes as he moves his index finger back and forth. Sherlock’s eyes follow it obediently.

“I don’t think you’re concussed, but I’ll stay here for a bit and keep an eye on you. Take the peas away, for a minute.”

Sherlock drops the bag on the sofa beside him. Still kneeling, John leans in and reaches around Sherlock to feel the lump on the back of his head. He probes gently as Sherlock hisses.

“Sorry.” He presses again and Sherlock pulls his head away. “I don’t think you’ve broken your hard head. What were you thinking?” John’s arm is still reached around Sherlock; the thought slams into him that this is the closest he’s been to Sherlock in over two years, the punch notwithstanding. He yanks his arm back but before he can get away, Sherlock grabs his wrist.

“I hope you didn’t leave Michael… _unsatisfied_ before you came here, John.”

John can feel himself blushing, but he keeps his eyes steady and his expression bland. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t lie to me!” Sherlock hisses, his grip tightening. “You were never very good at it; and besides, I can _smell_ him on you.”

John twists his wrist and is able to pull it free. “Do not bring him into this, Sherlock.”

“This? What’s _this_? There is no _this_ , you made that very clear. But I do have to say, I’m flattered you would leave his bed to tend to me, so quickly.”

“Our bed,” John corrects quickly, and he knows, _he knows_ he shouldn’t have said that, he is letting Sherlock suck him into a fight he doesn’t want to have. He stands and moves towards the kitchen, but only gets three steps away before he is being spun around.

“Don’t be an idiot, John. There is _nothing_ in that flat that is you, that is yours. It’s all him, his style, his taste… you’re just occupying closet space.”

John puts both hands on Sherlock’s chest and shoves, hard. Sherlock stumbles back, but doesn’t fall. “Shut up! Just shut the fuck up, Sherlock! You have no right to say anything, you don’t know anything about Michael and me!”

“I know enough!” Sherlock shouts back. His eyes are blazing and his chest is heaving; around his eyes, John sees the tell-tale lines that say, clear as day, that the detective is fighting off a monster headache. However, there’s no mistaking the look on his face; he’s furious, yes, but he’s thrilled he finally provoked John.

“I know that he loves you, and while you care for him, you don’t love him back. I know you sold most of your things when you moved in with him; the rest, Harry is storing for you. I know he provides just enough excitement to keep your limp from returning; probably rock-climbing, but it could be rugby. I know you enjoy his flat but you don’t quite think you fit in to his lifestyle. And I know he was fucking you before you came here tonight!”

There is nothing John can say. Sherlock’s correct; of course he is, even about the rock-climbing and the stuff at Harry’s. But that doesn’t stop John from yelling back.

“And what if he was! He’s allowed, I’m allowed, we’re adults, Sherlock, and we’re together! Jesus, why are you acting like a bloody jealous teenager?”

“Because I am jealous!”

Silence.

John can’t believe Sherlock just said that.

Sherlock looks like he can’t believe it, either.

They stare at each other, and then Sherlock starts shouting again, picking up right where he left off.

“Of course I’m jealous! I went all around the world and risked my _life_ for you, and all you had to say was ‘thank you’ and you left and went back to him, _him,_ John, and you are supposed to be mine!”

“How the hell do you figure that?” John knows he’s being drawn in again but he can’t help it, he can’t let this go. “Since when am I yours, Sherlock? Mr ‘married to my work’, you had plenty of chances and you didn’t take them!”

“I was going to! I planned on it. I meant to!”

“When, for fuck’s sake? Just when were you going to ‘make me yours’, and let’s not even get into how creepy that is!”

“The night after I came back! You came here to Baker Street, and I thought, I hoped—“

John cannot contain himself; not that he has been, up to now. “You thought what? That I would be so overwhelmed by your gesture of generosity, by your martyrdom on my behalf, that I would just rip off my clothes, bend over and say ‘oh Sherlock, take me now’?”

“ _Yes!_ I did think so, I did hope so! And then you left!”

“ _You left me first, you jackass!_ ”

The two men stare at each other, panting for breath. John is sweating; he feels like he’s run a marathon, and Sherlock doesn’t look well. There are spots of colour in his cheeks and his eyes are glassy. John makes a tremendous effort to pull himself together.

“I think by now it’s pretty clear you’re not concussed, so I’m leaving.” He moves to pick up his bag, but Sherlock blocks it with his body. He puts one hand on the back of John’s neck and the other on his shoulder and grips him, hard.

“You can’t leave.”

“I have to. Michael’s waiting for me at home.”

“That’s not your home, John! Here, with me, this is your home.”

John wrenches himself away. “I can’t be here! I told you, there is no more Sherlock-and-John. This relationship… it’s out of control, Sherlock, and I hate it! I loved it at the time, but now that I’ve moved on, and been in a normal relationship with a…”

“With a normal man?” Sherlock sneers.

“Yes! What we had, Sherlock, it was co-dependent and destructive and unhealthy. Maybe we could have been more, but we weren’t, and you have to let it go! I can’t live my life with you pulling at me all the time. I hate it! And right now, I kind of hate you!”

This is, John sees immediately, the wrong thing to say. Sherlock’s eyes sharpen and his ears turn pink. “You cannot mean that.”

“I do! Since you’ve come back, Michael and I—“

“Oh, Michael can sod off! He’s an architect, not a therapist; what does he know about us?”

“He knows enough! And more to the point, he knows me, he knows the kind of person I was when we met, when I was getting past your death, and he knows who I am now!”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Oh, he knows you, does he. Does he know how to keep your limp away?”

He begins advancing slowly; John feels himself back away.

“Does he know you hate rock-climbing? Does he know you’d rather have a pint than a glass of wine, and if you must have wine, that you prefer Merlot to Chablis? Does he know how to keep you from having nightmares, and how he mustn’t touch you when one wakes you up? And speaking of touch…”

John backs into the arm of the sofa, but skirts around it carefully. Sherlock continues his pursuit. “Does he know how to touch you? Does he know you hate having your earlobes sucked, but that you love having them stroked?”

He reaches out to demonstrate; John realizes he has literally backed himself into a corner. “Does he know you’re ticklish on your lower back?”

His arm slides around John’s waist, and John shivers despite himself. He is rock hard.

 “Does he know you’d rather bottom, or does he just assume you will for him, since you _care for him_?”

The sneer in his voice is obvious. “Does he know you prefer hand jobs because someone bit you once?”

He cups John’s erection with his free hand, and John groans despite himself. Sherlock leans in; his lips are less than an inch from John’s ear. “If he doesn’t know these things, then he doesn’t know enough about you. He doesn’t deserve you, John.”

John struggles to form a coherent thought. “And you do?”

Instead of answering, Sherlock seals his lips to John’s and plunges his tongue into John’s mouth.

It’s barely there, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it, but John does respond to the kiss before he remembers himself and shoves Sherlock off of him. The smugness is rolling off Sherlock in waves; it just makes John angrier. He clenches his fists to keep from punching Sherlock again.

“What do you think you’re doing? Who the hell do you think you are?” John shouts. Despite how good Sherlock felt pressed up against him, he is livid. “I don’t know if you were listening just now, or maybe it’s the crack on the head, but I hate you, Sherlock! _I_ _hate you_!”

“Good!” Sherlock shouts back.“Hate is an emotion, John! If you were indifferent towards me, I would leave you alone, I would listen to you and I would never bother you again. But if you hate me, I can work with that! Because it means you felt something for me once, and I can sublimate it, I can show you how I feel about you and you will remember how you felt about me, because _you are mine_ , John, you are mine and I saved your life, and dammit, I deserve more than a thank you for that!”

By nature, John is not a violent man. He can shoot to kill, but he only does it in defence of his friends, his men, or his country. But he has _had enough_. He picks up the closest thing to hand—it’s the mug, still half-full of cold tea—and hurls it at the wall as hard as he can, barely missing Sherlock’s head. Crockery smashes and liquid drips down the wall to pool by the feet of the music stand.

“I do not know how to make this any clearer to you, Sherlock. I am _not yours_. I could have been, once, and I loved you, I loved you so much but you _left me,_ you left me and I had to pick up the pieces of my life _again_ , and I did it, because I’m a survivor, and I can’t let you back into my life now, don’t you see? If I do, then when you leave again, because you will, you’ll get bored or you’ll actually die and leave for real, then it will kill me, actually _kill me_ and I can’t live through it again, I can’t, and I won’t!” His blue eyes, usually so warm, are so hot they’re sparking.

John moves past Sherlock and stops by his bag. Before he picks it up, he turns and fixes Sherlock with a look that can only have been born on a battlefield. “If you come near me again, or Michael, I will shoot you in the fucking leg, Sherlock. And if you send Mycroft or Lestrade, I will shoot them too. No judge will convict me, not when they hear what you did.” He picks up his bag. “I’m not telling you again. Leave me alone, Sherlock.”

He pounds down the stairs and out the front door, and then he is gone.

~~

When John returns home, the light in Michael’s study is on. Despite it being past midnight, as well as a work night, he is sitting in his chair behind his modest desk, more expensive whiskey in a cut-glass tumbler. John closes the door quietly behind him and slides into the guest chair. He is bone-tired. Michael pushes another glass of whiskey across the desk for him.

“You’re still up.”

“I was waiting for you.”

John smiles faintly. “Thank you. I’m sorry I had to go. It won’t happen again.” He sips the whiskey. It’s so smoky and lovely; sometimes, he muses, some things are worth the money.

Michael drains his glass and sets it on the blotter. “Do you really believe that?”

John shrugs and gives a crooked smile. “Well, I told him that if he bothered either of us again I would shoot him, so. I’m thinking yes, I do believe it.”

To Michael’s credit, he doesn’t react to the mention of shooting Sherlock. All he says is, “You don’t have a gun.”

“I had one, once. He doesn’t know I don’t have it, anymore.” John swirls the liquid in the glass. “Actually, he probably does, but I don’t care. I think I made my point.”

He sets the glass down and meets Michael’s eyes. “He was my best friend, and once, I thought we could be more, but not anymore. I’m with you, now. I’m in this for the long haul.”

He reaches across the desk to clasp Michael’s hand, and then freezes. Beside the desk, a little behind it, is Michael’s Gucci travel bag. “I… Michael, what’s that?”

Michael sighs.

“You’re in love with him, John.”

John pinches his nose. He can’t have this conversation twice in one night.

“John. It’s alright, I know you are. You know how I feel about you, and although I hoped otherwise, I know you don’t exactly… reciprocate my feelings. I thought I was fine with that, because I know you do care for me, in your own way, but I saw the way you looked at him when he came over, and you’ve never looked at me that way.”

John knows when he’s beat. There’s nothing left to say. “I’m sorry.”

“I know. I’m sorry, too.” Michael gets up and pulls his coat from the back of the chair. As he picks up his bag, he puts his other hand on John’s shoulder. “I’m going to Edinburgh; the firm has a flat there I can use. Stay as long as you need to, until you find a place.” He strokes John’s face with his thumb, and withdraws his hand regretfully. “There’s Merlot in the cabinet; I know you love it.”

The heavy door closes softly.

~~

It takes John a few weeks, but near the end of September he’s pretty sure he’s found a place. It’s small, not much bigger than the bedsit he had when he came home, but it’s brighter and it’s two tube stops away from the hospital. He’s packing when he realizes, Sherlock was right. There’s hardly anything of substance of his in this flat, other than his clothes and his laptop. He takes a final look around and tosses another bottle of Merlot from the liquor cabinet in his bag. Michael hates it; John’s doing him a favour. He leaves his bags piled by the door for the movers. John can’t help but respect Michael for sending them when he knew John was ready to leave.

He’s in the hospital cafeteria having dinner when a tall figure in a dark coat sits down across from him. He doesn’t bother looking up.

“So he left you.”

John continues forking up sweet and sour chicken and doesn’t reply.

“I’m sorry, John.”

“Why are you sorry? It’s not like you pushed him out.”

“I… am given to understand that ‘I’m sorry’ is the appropriate response in times of sorrow, even if one didn’t cause said sorrow.”

“That’s true.” John stirs some more sauce into his rice and uses his knife to push some onto his fork. “Thanks, I guess.”

They sit in silence; time drags. It seems like forever but it can’t be more than five minutes.

“I have a room available for let, and I know you need a place. You can’t stay in his flat forever.”

“I found a place, actually. It’s not far from here.” John looks up from his food, meeting Sherlock’s eyes. “What are you doing here, by the way? I thought having Molly at Barts gave you an in, there.”

Sherlock snorts. “I can charm my way into any morgue, John. Surely you know that by now.” He studies John’s dinner. “That looks frankly disgusting. We had better at two in the morning after our first case.”

“Yeah, well, I’m on until seven and choices are limited.” John swallows. “Sherlock, why are you here?”

The detective spears a chunk of pineapple with the chopsticks John ignored in favour of a plastic fork. He chews it slowly, and swallows.

“You said you loved me, once.”

“I did.”

“And you meant it.”

“I did.”

Sherlock fiddles with the chopsticks as he stares at his hands. “I know that in your… relationship, with Michael…” He keeps the sneer out of his voice when he says the name. “… the feelings were not, shall we say, equally represented. But I think you would find, in our relationship… such as it is… that perhaps the situation would be…” He looks so terribly uncomfortable that John takes pity on him. After all, it’s not like he can shoot him in the cafeteria.

“Sherlock. Are you trying, in your roundabout way, to say that you maybe loved me back?”

The detective is keeping his eyes glued to the chopsticks in his hands. “Present tense, John. Not ‘loved’.”

Even though he still wants to shoot Sherlock (or maybe just graze him, or give him a good scare), John can’t help feeling a little thrill at the flip of his stomach. But he keeps his face impassive, turning back to his food. “I see.” He lowers his fork to stab some chicken, and suddenly Sherlock’s hand is on his.

“John, I know I left you alone, and I know what I did was beyond cruel, and I don’t blame you for setting walls around yourself. But I lived without you for a lifetime, and I can’t do it again. I need you. Please come home with me. At least let us be friends, and work together again. If your feelings are past tense, I understand; it’s no more than I deserve. But I need you by my side again, I need to know you’re in the upstairs bedroom again. But I feel… present tense, about you. And I thought you should know.”

He looks so miserable. While the shreds of anger aren’t gone yet, John can feel the beginnings of something else, something he carried with him while they were Sherlock-and-John. Something he kept squelched  down, because he never thought it would ever be returned. He takes a deep breath and thinks, _what the hell_.

“Present tense, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s head snaps up. His clear eyes meet John’s, and it seems he is scarcely breathing. “What?”

“You heard me. And you dislike repetition, remember?” John sets his fork down and reaches across the table to take Sherlock’s hand. The last time he did this, with Michael, he was rebuffed. But Sherlock grasps tightly.

“Tell me about this room. Do you think it would make a good media room?” John teases.

Sherlock gives him a stern look. “I was thinking a lab, actually. That room is on an outside wall, I can put in a fume hood.”

They sit in silence, while John’s food gets cold and the sauce congeals. “I have to get my stuff from Michael’s.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s taken care of.” Sherlock withdraws his hand gently and stands. His eyes are luminous, and more expressive than John’s ever seen, even if his face is impassive. John scoffs and stands as well.

“Awfully sure of yourself, don’t you think?”

Sherlock shrugs. “I rather thought that if I caught you at the right time, I might get a different answer.” He takes John’s elbow gently and presses a soft kiss to John’s lips. “See you at home?”

John closes his eyes. The cafeteria is noisy, but if he concentrates, he can block it all out. He doesn’t think anyone’s noticed them. “Yeah. Yeah, see you at home.”

Sherlock gives him a quick smile, his genuine smile. He leans in and whispers, “Present tense, John.”

“Present tense, Sherlock.”

**Author's Note:**

> for you, my dear! I hope you enjoyed it!


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